Blue
by latefebruary
Summary: Draco Malfoy was far from okay. But so was she... - Valentine's Day, One-Shot, DHr. (edited)


**_31st December 1998_**

_One: Get a job._

_Two: Make a friend._

In his drunken state he was far too optimistic, not even realising how absurd his New Year's Resolutions sounded.

_Surely_, the Ministry would give him a job at a tiny, neatly-organised desk with pictures of his soon-to-be family covering almost every inch of his small cubicle, documents scattered all over the place. Of course his father would crunch up his nose at the mere image of his son doing such mundane tasks, but since he was stuck between Dementors and impermeable walls his opinion simply didn't matter.

And _surely_, someone would take pity on the poor little Ex-Death Eater and befriend him. He'd make himself a buddy who would occupy the seat next to him, order round after round and end up completely pissed, all the bullshit about their pasts and how freakishly unfair life had been to them pouring out of their mouths, along with the ounces of hard liquor they had consumed.

He chuckled, a lopsided grin spreading over his lips.

Oh, how he wished that as he choked on his own vomit, his inner demons would finally make their grand exit.

No, they seemed to be far too comfortable where they were, feeding themselves off of his intestines.

* * *

**_2nd January 1999_**

He could still feel the rain trickling between his shoulder blades, cold droplets going their own, separate ways until they merged, becoming one. His hair was mussed at the front, the rest of it plastered to his scalp and the nape of his neck. He couldn't bother with a drying spell.

His mother was off to visit his father while he was sitting in a nebulous pub, surrounded by even more nebulous people who, thankfully, were minding their own business. A welcome change from what was awaiting him out there, his father with his expectations even from behind the cell doors, and his mother's hopeful eyes that wanted to see him nothing but happy. _My poor boy. I never wanted things to be this way. My poor, darling boy-_

They had expected him to keep it together. The cruelty-stricken, cold boy who'd become a Death Eater, once a source of pride for his family, now nothing but beastly shame. They had always thought him to be one of those to come out unscathed, the scars on his face and body nothing but proof of his participation in the war, his strength, the fact that against all odds, he'd managed to survive...

Little did they see what he saw when he looked in the mirror, staring at the long, ugly crease across his left cheek. When he traced the outline of the Dark Mark etched on his forearm, the dark colour feeling dirty, nothing but so hauntingly disgusting that he'd attempted to scrub it away, his skin becoming alarmingly raw and red, little dots of blood appearing on the surface.

If there had been one thing he'd been good at, it had been following mere orders, trying so damn hard to please, appease and gratify. Ripping out his soul because he had found no other use for it.

That skill of cowardice simply didn't work now when there was no one to give him a manual on what to do with himself, no one to be obeyed, to be followed.

_He_ didn't work in this world.

He knew he would never have a job at a tiny, neatly-organised desk with pictures of his soon-to-be family covering almost every inch of his small cubicle, documents scattered all over the place, just like he knew that nobody would take pity on the poor little Ex-Death Eater and befriend him.

An unfamiliar weight settled on his shoulders, a weight so much heavier than he'd been carrying around until his father had been escorted to Azkaban. He could barely _breathe_.

* * *

**_3rd January 1999_**

She was soaked from head to toe. The rain was dripping from her dampened hair, the curls unrecognisable as she closed the oak door behind her. Her eyes flittered over the many tables, all unoccupied. Almost, she would have seen him amidst all the other witches and wizards, nameless strangers. He was more than glad that he was merely a little, bright spot in her vision.

To be safe he bent down his head, his eyes focused on the Firewhiskey in front of him.

He didn't even _like_ Firewhiskey.

He waited for her to take a seat, optimally somewhere far away from him, a dark corner where she would face the wall. Or else he'd have to leave as fast as possible, which wasn't something he was willing to do.

What exactly was she doing there, anyway? Invading his personal haven, the only place to escape from what was out there, in the real world. He'd been coming here ever since the trials had ended, his father sent to Azkaban and his mother freed of all charges with the help of Harry Potter personally. He himself had escaped the prison by being a minor when he'd joined the Death Eaters. And of course he didn't like to even think about yet another interference by Potter, who had spoken in favour of him.

The-Boy-Who-Lived and the Weasleys had been almost everywhere except here, where he found his own comfort. Hermione Granger, on the other hand, had evaporated completely. Her bushy mane hadn't been seen in public for half a year now, not even at the trials at the Ministry. As long as he had the opportunity to get away from his overbearing mother and the ceaseless media coverage of the Final Battle, he was completely fine with the Golden Trio doing whatever noble deed they seemed to be obliged to do.

Showing up at his local was another story.

Deliberately he lifted up his chin and scanned his surroundings for the same blue coat she'd come in with, and finally spotted both its sleeves hanging over a chair. The same face he'd come to despise was hunched over a book, so deeply immersed that she didn't even notice the approaching waitress. She flinched as the elderly woman spoke to her, and blushed deeply as she bowed down her head, letting the magically dried hair fall over her face like a curtain. The waitress nodded and turned around.

He realised he'd seen enough. Slowly, he made to stand up with his face turned away from her and set some galleons on the table. Maybe he could work up the courage to visit the crowded areas of Diagon Alley to finally do the shopping his mother had asked him to do weeks ago.

Which was wishful thinking. In reality, there was no way in hell he would do that. He'd rather not deal with sneering or hateful looks thrown his way, and not test his own temper and patience.

Things were better this way.

* * *

**_7th February 1999_**

The next time he saw her was through the dusty windows of the establishment, just as he'd been about to enter it. Her coat was glaring at him, daring him to have his usual: a Firewhiskey, left untouched in front of him, just for the sake of having ordered _something_.

His lips tightened as she turned a page of her damned book. His jaw clenched when she, yet again, seemed flustered when the waitress asked her what she'd like to order. His fingers curled to fists as she bent down her head, her curls obscuring her flushing face.

He didn't stop muttering curses under his breath until he got home.

* * *

**_9th January 1999_**

To hell with her. If there was someone to consider visiting another pub, it was surely not going to be him.

He'd entered with his eyes set on his polished shoes, willing them not to look for the bright blue coat. She'd ruined it for him, the colour blue.

But eventually he had to lift his eyes from the ground to find an unoccupied table, and in the end found himself scanning the crowd. There were all varieties of blue amidst the ocean of colours, but nowhere could he see that specific tone he knew he could recognise anywhere. It was a shade of blue that had made him restless for the last days. The source of his discomfort.

The way you couldn't stop thinking about bad memories, he couldn't stop thinking about that damned blue coat of hers.

A smug smile fluttered across his lips as he sat down, and held up his hand to order another useless glass of Firewhiskey. Maybe she'd finally found a far more suitable place to drink her Butterbeer, somewhere where she'd be surrounded by her admirers, asked for one autograph after the other. Somewhere amidst her heroic friends, who wouldn't shut up about all the great and noble things they'd done during the War.

He almost leapt out of his seat as he heard a familiar voice nearby, _I'm so sorry, are you okay, I'll pay for it, no really I simply have to. _The blue coat was mocking him from the corner of his eye. He could hear the bustling of Knuts and Galleons, and the small protests of the man whose drink she'd knocked over, falling on deaf ears.

He was determined to stay right where he was. Even if she sat in his vision, her every feature clear under the candlelights above her head. Her book was already on the table, her index finger tracing along the lines she was reading. His eyes followed its movements, one by one, fascinated at how fast it was moving from left to right, line through line. Though it came to an abrupt halt, and no matter how much he willed her finger to move on, it just wouldn't budge.

It was only when a single droplet fell on the page that he realised she was crying.

He didn't remember ever making such a quick exit.

* * *

**_10th January 1999_**

The liquid burned his throat, his fingers clawing at the glass he set on the table. He oppressed the urge to cough out his lungs, to as much grimace at the vile, long forgotten taste of Firewhiskey.

He was the Master of Malfoy Manor. It surely would take him a lifetime to get used to the title alone. Distant relatives had flooded their drawing room, the vultures they were, begging his mother to accept their help. _He's too young! Let the poor boy finish his education! The second you leave the family business in his hands, it's going to evaporate, mark my words, Cissy! _And he, as the Master of Malfoy Manor, had kicked them out.

He couldn't remember his father welcoming scum on his grounds, family or not.

His mother had laid a comforting hand on one shaking shoulder, pecked him on the cheek before she had retreated to tend to her gardens.

The second glass of Firewhiskey was downed in one go, slightly diminishing the anger that was still flowing through his veins. And he couldn't help but let his eyes search not only for the blue coat, but more importantly, for the curly dark hair. Both were nowhere to be found.

Restlessness made him jump to his feet, scatter a few galleons on table and floor to leave the pub, shaky on his feet.

She hadn't come, no matter how long he'd waited for her to appear.

* * *

**_15th January 1999_**

"This is my final word on this matter, Ms Granger. There is nothing I could do, at least nothing within my legal capabilities."

He turned back to hide behind the corner he'd just passed by. He could hear her sniffing and hiccupping as she mumbled some words he couldn't quite make out.

He'd come here for family matters. Little had he expected to meet her here at the Ministry, of all places, when he'd religiously waited to see her in the cramped pub, leaning over a book with her tears ruining its pages.

"I am sorry, Miss Granger. I really am."

He dared to take a peak, and saw her dressed in blue, silently closing the door behind her. Her lips were trembling as she closed her eyes and sighed out, her breath coming out shakily. He noticed a crumpled paper in one hand, and a photo in the other. It was unmoving, he noticed. He found himself looking straight in her shimmering eyes as he glanced up from her hands; she was watching him curiously, her head tilted in contemplation.

With great elation he saw that she no longer looked too upset. With greater dismay he asked himself why he cared at all.

Her eyes fluttered to his own documents he was gripping tightly, and her brows furrowed questioningly.

"Family matters," he said in clipped tones and wondered what had dared him to speak at all. She seemed to be thinking along the same lines, as her brows shot up in reaction. He jerked his head towards her own full hands, making her falter.

"Family matters," she answered, her voice merely audible. Her lips trembled, tightened the way her fists did, her eyes darting from one point to another, and he prayed to the heavens to make the display stop. Until he realised he could very well just take a bow, and _leave_.

Something was making him stay, and no matter what it was, he hated it.

Only a few seconds afterwards he remembered, oh and he could remember it like it was yesterday. Just like he could remember everything else from the times when the Dark Lord had reigned over his house, his grounds, his very own body. It was all etched on both skin and mind, and he felt stupid for not remembering the details earlier.

"Your parents. They're missing," he stated, knowing there was no doubt that it was her Muggle parents on the unmoving photograph. He knew that her parents had left Great Britain, just like he knew that Granger never did things half-heartedly. If anything, she probably had done her very best to prevent them from being found by anyone who would look for them, even by their own daughter. He felt his eyes set on him, something indecipherable swimming in their depths until he realised what she was waiting for.

She was scared out of her mind. That the Death Eaters, him included, had done the unspeakable to them.

"We never found them," he muttered but felt like screaming at her _I never wanted to, I had no choice, I didn't mean to hurt any of you. _His chest was aching, and he gulped down all the things he wanted to get out of his system.

As if saying the abominable things he'd done would lessen the ceaseless guilt inside him.

She sighed, and her tense shoulders slumped down in relief.

"Thank you," she mumbled.

They looked at each other for a moment, merely standing in a three metre distance. When she left, her bouncing hair brushing his shoulder as she walked by, he heard a small _Goodbye, Draco_passing her lips. He closed his eyes.

_I'm so sorry._

* * *

**_19th January 1999_**

It was all settled. His mother was now the true Master of Malfoy Manor. She would also handle the family businesses, which he knew she would handle even better than his father, but mostly better than himself. What people underestimated about her was her astuteness, and now she was finally able to prove it to everyone, once and for all.

His strides were taking him from the Ministry, where he'd signed the papers to transmit any of his inheritances to his mother, straight to the pub. This time, maybe he'd only have wine instead of his usual Firewhiskey. Since at least one thing seemed to have gone the way he'd wanted it to.

He came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the alley, rain coming down in sheets.

He damned every second he'd hoped to see her again.

His breath left his lungs as he stumbled forward, his shoes dampening from the puddles he stepped in to reach the motionless body sprawled on the ground.

If God hadn't damned him already, he would make sure that his final destination would be hell anyway.

His fingers brushed away her curls stuck on her face as he leaned down. Her dark eyes were closed and her plump lips parted slightly. His chest tightened, panic overwhelmed his senses as he reached to feel her pulse. No, she was still alive. Had merely fainted. He cast a spell to shield them from the rain, took off his coat and covered her very own, much hated blue coat with his black one. He fell on his knees beside her and felt like weeping.

_Look at what you've helped create._

No single soul passed them by as he contemplated what to do. His fingers were trembling as they touched one cold cheek, then the other. He noticed the darkness around her eyes, the indicator of the very same sleepless nights he had been dealing with ever since he'd taken the Dark Mark. When was the last time she had slept soundly?

_Look at what you've DONE._

He needed to make things right. He took her in his arms, stood up to his full height and apparated to St Mungo's.

No force on Earth could have made him stay, and wait for her to wake up.

* * *

**_20th January 1999_**

His fingers tightened around the small, brown envelope, the initials _H.G._ scribbled on the left bottom corner.

He didn't dare open it. It might release something he was not willing to face yet.

He put it in the inner pocket of his black coat, right over his chest.

* * *

**_22nd January 1999_**

What a joy, catching up with old schoolmates.

Frantic knocking brought him to his feet, made him change into acceptable attire before he stepped out of his room. Both Harry Potter and Ron Weasley brusquely stepped into the parlour of the Manor, ignoring his mother's presence and the bewildered looks thrown their way. He watched the scene from upstairs, poised against the railings before he took off to sprint down the stairs.

They asked him what he'd done to Hermione to make her land in St Mungo's. His mother gasped at the profanities he threw at them in response as he pushed them in the direction they had come from. But they were stubborn, and stood their ground.

They asked where she was now that they've released her from the hospital. Apparently she was missing, and their sappy friendship not as strong as they'd made everyone else believe. This time, he restrained himself from shouting more obscenities for the sake of his mother, and instead, asked them to leave with as much venom as he could muster up.

They left, completely disgruntled at the lack of answers they had received.

While his mother was muttering about proper etiquette and rudeness, all he could think about was _missing, missing, missing..._

She was missing.

The letter in his pocket burned a hole through his chest.

* * *

**23rd January 1999**

He dreamed of Hogwarts. His first ride to the castles, the Sorting Ceremony that had filled him with nothing but pride and glee, not able to wait to tell his parents that _yes_, he was a true Malfoy.

_I made it._

He dreamed of flying over the Quidditch pitch, the wind wafting through his Seeker attire, his eyes set on Potter, then on the golden, shimmering something flickering in his vision. He looked back at his rival, who had that hard, determined look on his face, his eyes every now and then locking with his. Potter suddenly sprung to action, following the Golden Snitch that was floating towards the grounds.

_...everyone thinks he's so _smart_, wonderful _Potter_ with his _scar_ and his _broomstick_-_

His dream shifted abruptly, and he found himself falling into a deep abyss, darkness engulfing him completely. He was standing at the Astronomy Tower, the sun already down and his wand poised and ready to kill, kill, _kill_...

He dreamed of Albus Dumbledore with his ridiculously kind, forgiving eyes he'd despised for so long, with his wrinkly, old hand outstretched and daring him to hope that maybe, just maybe, he still had a chance in this damned world. His wand lowered on its own accord, his hands clammy and lips trembling and his body so tired from trying and failing and trying, over and over again.

_You don't know what I'm capable of, you don't know what I've done!_

A few tears escaped his fear-filled eyes as he felt the tip of his wand against his own neck. His knees were almost giving in, his breath coming in short gasps as he looked at his headmaster, the Mudblood-lover, who was smiling at him like he was proud of him, his eyes as kind as ever, as_ sickening_ as ever. He felt his wand dig deeper into his flesh.

_I haven't got any options! I've got to do it!_

The scene changed again, and he dissolved into nothing first, reeling in the feeling of nothingness until it was gone, replaced by the sight of the drawing room of the Manor. He was standing there between his parents, eyes wide open as he watched his lunatic aunt straddle someone laying on the ground, wand in one hand, dagger in the other. Her maniacal laughter filled the room, echoing from the high walls only to be accompanied by gut-wrenching screams and sobs from the witch underneath her.

He dreamed of Hermione Granger, her brilliantly red blood smeared on face and arm, and pooling around her body. He couldn't move, nor could he scream, spit in his aunt's face until his mouth was left dry.

_No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood._

She bled out like a pig after slaughter.

He woke up, his upper body bolting up swiftly. He slammed both fists into his sleep-deprived eyes, leaned his head against the cushioned headboard and wept, wept, and wept until he choked on his own tears.

* * *

**_24th January 1999_**

He leapt to his bare feet, hitting the soft Turkish rug before he opened the closet door to take out his black coat. His hand darted into its inside pocket, feeling the brown, delicate envelope between his fingers.

He could easily rip it to a thousand pieces and move on.

Carefully he took it out, and stared hard at the messy writing on the outside. It was written with blue ink, and he wondered if this was supposed to be some distasteful fucking joke. The envelope fell on the ground, a small piece of parchment in his pale hands feeling somehow so forbidden and displaced and simply _wrong_.

_Thank you._

That was all she'd written, her scrawl big and so hideous but he had to read it over and over again, his eyes focusing on every letter, every single loop and blotch of ink she'd wasted on him.

He burned it, the warmness emanating from the fireplace and evading his icy cold skin.

_It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now._

* * *

**_30th January 1999_**

The tip of his finger danced along the rim of the glass, filled with... what was it? Beetle Berry Whiskey? Daisyroot Draught?

At least the taste was only half as revolting as Firewhiskey.

The snow on his shoes had melted, and was dripping on the wooden floor as he watched the spectacle behind the windowpanes, little flakes swirling and falling on the cobblestones. Everything was covered in white, and white only.

But all he could see was _blue_.

The door opened, and it wasn't only the snowflakes that entered, and dissolved the second they hit the floor. It was her, a small, beaded bag dangling off her blue coat, her hair big as ever and sprinkled with flimsy white particles. Her eyes were wandering over the many guests, trying to make out an empty spot amidst the crowd before they finally settled on him.

His finger slipped down the rim of his glass, toppling it and letting it hit the floor with a shattering sound, its contents ruining his black coat. He abruptly stood up, cursing everything to hell.

"Let me help you," he heard a small voice, making him tear his eyes from the glistening shards laying all around him. Her wand was already out, a drying and cleaning spell on her tongue. Concerned eyes rose to meet his, only to look down to his legs. "You're not injured, are you?"

"'s fine, Granger," he answered, his voice rough and rusty from being used so infrequently. He hesitated, but eventually cleared his throat. "Thanks."

"Oh, it's nothing, really," she shook her head, a nervous smile playing around her lips. "After what you've done for me, this really is no big deal." She bit her lip, looking away from his piercing eyes. "I really can't thank you enough, Draco."

It was his turn to become uncomfortable. He scratched the nape of his neck, not quite sure what to do with himself.

She looked at the seat opposite to his, her lips pressed together.

_Stay._

"So... I'll see you around," she mumbled, her smile more of a grimace and the curling of her fingers more a spasm than a bid of goodbye.

"Yeah," he said softly, more to himself as she was already gone. "See you."

* * *

**_31st January 1999_**

Life was filled with nothing but opportunities. It was a cluster of decisions, made from the options you were provided with. Some decisions were easy to make, the options both fair and within your reach. Others, if they could even be called decisions, had one option sitting straight in your lap, the others winking at you from a far distance, mocking you.

Some tried to reach them regardless, stretching their soul to unimaginable lengths, ripping it apart in the process.

He had stayed right where he was. The end result was the very same.

Yesterday, he had been given another opportunity, one so fleeting that he'd barely had time to register it, to consider one option or the other until life had taken over the wheel.

He had let her go and sit all by herself when all he'd wanted her to do was join him, maybe drink a gulp of the same drink he'd spilled over, only to spit it out the next second. He'd never taken her for a heavy drinker; if anything, she was more of the Butterbeer type, with its sweet, heavenly taste lingering on your lips and tongue.

He didn't believe in fate. He didn't believe that out there, someone was sitting idly in their armchair, sipping on tea in front of their fireplace and thinking _How about another famine? A war, maybe?_

_How about I fuck over your life, my dear little boy?_

This time, everything was dipped in red. His head was hurting, the buzzing sound in his ears not enough to drown out his own grunts as a fist plummeted in his stomach, his yelps of pain as another fist crashed into both cheek and nose. It was two on one, yet he felt like the whole world was crashing down on him.

The snow around him cushioned his unceremonious fall, and he could swear he'd slammed his face into a chunk of his own broken teeth. Breathing was becoming more difficult with each passing second, and it stopped completely as a boot kicked him right in his ribs, knocking all air out of him. He coughed out blood, and more teeth came along with it.

"That's for my family, you fucking piece of shit. "

There was no way for him to know if he'd received another kick. Everything had turned black already.

* * *

**_2nd February 1999_**

"I have the feeling that they're alive, you know. Somewhere in Australia, in a small village, they're probably tending to people's teeth. You've probably never heard of dentists, but that's what they do for a living; take care of people's set of teeth. Make sure they don't rot, fall out or cause any pain."

He didn't dare open his eyes.

"Sometimes… Sometimes I see them in my dreams. Passing me by, not even looking at me. As if I'm a complete stranger."

He gripped the sheets under his hands.

"I tried to reason with Kingsley and so many other Ministry officials. Told them I had to restore their memories, get them back where they belong but they wouldn't _listen_. The Australian Ministry's dismantled all connections to ours, and we're not allowed to travel there. I can't even make sure if they're fine, if they're alive at all."

A choking sound. His chest constricted

"But they were all that I had. Everything is so... so messed up and I don't know how to deal with any of this."

_How about I fuck over your life, my dear little girl?_

* * *

**_5th February 1999_**

Her brown eyes were shining in curiosity as he searched for the right words. His left hand was clutching the brilliantly white pearl under the table, out of her sight.

Where reason had ended, his fortune had come to good use.

That was all the bureaucracy of the Ministry was about. Mankind was weak against the laws, helpless even in the face of immorality. But he had learned soon enough that above everything else, even the law, it was money that decided. Maybe even God, greedy as he was, feasted not only on the pain of his followers, but could also be bribed with money.

For some reason he'd just known she would come to the pub, sit down with a book and order her usual. He'd waited for her, every now and then having second thoughts about doing this in person when he could as well just have owled her. It surely would have made things so much easier for both of them.

But this wasn't about doing what was easy. The second he'd shaken the Ministry employee's sweaty hand, he'd already taken the hard road, with its many bumps and hindrances.

He took one of her hands. As he opened it, he let the little pearl slip between his own fingers right into the palm of her hand before he let go.

Her eyes darted between him and the orb, shimmering in her hand. Her brows furrowed as she stopped to look at him, the question etched on her every feature.

"It's a Portkey," he clarified, his hands sweating under her piercing stare. He could still feel the roughness of hers, the dryness from the icy cold. "To Australia. It's set for tomorrow morning, at-"

"A Portkey," she repeated slowly, rolling the pearl from one hand to the other. "To Australia." Her eyes were unreadable as she turned them back to him. "You got me a Portkey to Australia."

He gave her a small nod, his mouth so dry and his mind reeling that he didn't dare open his mouth. He didn't think he would be able to produce any coherent sentences, much less any kind of speech sounds.

She hugged her blue coat tighter as she bent her head to look at the pearl, her eyes wide and shiny and her lip quivering violently. He bit his own as a lone tear fell right beside the pearl sitting in the palm of her hand.

"So you heard me," she stated in a small voice. "They hurt you pretty badly, so the last thing I expected was for you to hear any of the things I told you." She took the pearl between thumb and index finger, rolling it. "How much did you have to pay for this?"

10.000 Galleons. His mother had raised both her delicate eyebrows when he'd asked for it, but hadn't questioned him any further.

"Doesn't matter, Granger," he said in clipped tones, indicating that he would definitely not discuss this any further. "It starts tomorrow morning at nine, so be prepared. You have three days until the Portkey activates again to transport you back to Britain." He stood up, chair scraping against the wooden floor. His hands were pressed on the table, lips tight as he considered his next words. "Potter and Weasley... they're looking for you. Thought you should know that."

"I know," was all she said, fidgeting with her hands, pulling at each finger.

He took a deep breath, perturbed by how unstable she seemed to be. She reminded him of someone he knew too well.

"Good luck, Granger."

As he walked towards the exit, purposeful, long strides taking him away from her someone stopped him. A pull on his arm turned him around.

"Why?" she asked him.

_Because there is nothing else I could give you._

"I don't know," he told her, diverting his eyes to look at anyone but her.

But then she came forward, looking up to him with hesitation in her eyes before she put her arms around him, the broken, useless joints that made up his body. She pressed her face into the nook of his neck, eradicating the coldness that had taken over his very being. She was _so warm_.

He closed his eyes.

"You can't even imagine how much this means to me," she whispered against his skin, making him shiver.

Even on his way home the warmness didn't quite leave him.

* * *

**_13th February 1999_**

There were certain wounds he knew would never heal. Little fractions of his soul that would never return.

He was standing in front of a full-length-mirror, bare, with his pale skin covered with bruises that were close to disappearing. There was something in the picture that unnerved him.

He started from the top of his head, the mop of tousled blond hair that went past his ears, and his eyes scanned over his face, his grey eyes and sharp nose and chin, his lips, chapped and dark. His chest was heaving slowly, the pale hair covering it barely visible, just as it was on his arms and legs. His blue feet were rooted to the marble floor.

He was freezing, but he kept staring at his reflection like it was a riddle he needed to solve.

He could barely recognise himself.

Then it hit him that somehow, without him noticing, his body had grown into that of an adult. It seemed that it was having a hard time with keeping up with his soul that felt a hundred years old already.

_But I got this far, didn't I?_

* * *

**14th February 1999**

She shook off the rain on her yellow umbrella, closed it before she entered. Of course she was wearing her blue coat, with black wool gloves covering her hands and a fitting scarf wound around her neck. She used several charms before she stuffed her umbrella into her beaded bag, and headed to an unoccupied table.

_Life was filled with nothing but opportunities._

And this time, he was ready to take one.

Only as his shadow hit the open book did her finger stop at the last syllable, did her eyes lift from the page to look up at him. She brushed aside a few stray curls to tuck them behind her ear, and immediately straightened up as she noticed who it was standing in front of her, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

In that moment he found her more than just beautiful, with her unruly hair framing her dark, glowing skin, a faint blush spreading over her full cheeks. Her eyes were of the darkest shade of brown, drawing him in, and he found himself unable to break free from her gaze.

The next second she was on her feet, rounding the table and standing close, looking up at him.

"I'd been hoping to see you here," she said, her voice higher than usual. She cleared her throat, grimacing slightly. "H-how are you, Draco? It's been rather stormy lately, so I couldn't be too sure if you would receive my letter-"

"I did," he assured her, the letter in his jacket pocket, unburned, still in one piece. "I'm glad things worked out," he added lamely, scratching the back of his head.

She'd found her parents on the second day of her visit, stunned them to perform a rather complicated Memory restoration spell. They had been furious with her for messing with their heads, but she certainly didn't regret doing what she'd had to do.

She gave him a shy smile before she looked away, and furrowed her brows.

"I honestly don't know how to thank you. I thought of a present, but... You have everything already, and to be honest, I wouldn't really know what you would like anyway."

But then she looked at him, uncertainty radiating off her every cell. She bit down on her lip before she raised herself on tiptoes, and pecked him on the cheek.

It was quick and lasted for merely a second, but he would feel her lips on his skin for the rest of the coming days, weeks, months even.

_It was a cluster of decisions, made from the options you were provided with._

And this time, the option was right in his hand. He reached out tilt up her chin, but ended up cupping her cheek instead. What he saw in her eyes frightened him, but he knew too well that she saw the same darkness within his own bright irises.

They were both fucked up beyond repair, bruised and battered and empty but ready to be filled with reason to survive, to live, to move on.

But despite everything, she smiled. No matter how dark their pasts, how life had ripped apart their youths she still smiled, and it was everything to undo him.

He certainly hadn't planned on it, but the lingering kiss right beside her mouth and the bewildered expression on her face were enough to keep him awake that night.

* * *

**14th February 2000**

There is no such thing as a fresh start. Leaving the past behind to start all over again, with no guilt, shame or regret to haunt you in your dreams. Instead, the past glares right at you while the present slips through your fingers, and you can't help but wonder about _what ifs_, and _could have beens_.

He wasn't naïve enough to think that one day, he could wake up with all the burdens of the past lifted off his shoulders.

He was Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy who was rotting away in Azkaban. Son of Narcissa Malfoy, who was mourning her broken family. Follower of the Dark Lord, whose ashes were still holding onto his clothes, his skin, his very being.

Draco Malfoy was far from okay, but he tried.

Every kiss, every trail he left on her body was filled with desperation, apologies for all the things that had happened to her and for how fucked up he was, how she deserved so much better and even more. Every single sound escaping her lips felt like salvation, and no, he could not stop begging her to continue.

There were still tiny little blots of his soul holding onto him, he could _feel_ it as his heart imploded, built up to buckle under the next pressure. It felt heavenly, the way she clutched his arms like he was all she needed.

Because the feeling was nothing but mutual.

He dared to take a break and look at her flushed face, her eyes shining in wonder and looking at him in a way that unhinged him completely. He dipped down his head to meet her lips, his hands wandering down her bare hips and meeting the cotton material of her underwear. She whimpered, and clasped her arms around his head, pulling him closer.

_Yes._

Hermione Granger was far from okay, but she tried, too.

Maybe it was the weird Muggle contraptions scattered all over her flat, the bright television screen glaring at their faces, making them laugh, cry, grip each other's hand in fear and excitement. Maybe it was how in their restless nights, when nightmares came to haunt them in their sleep the second they would close their eyes, they could cling to each other, let the heartbeat of one another lull them into a peaceful dream.

Both were far from okay, but the way things were were more than they'd ever hoped for. Since there was no such thing as a fresh start, all they could do was make the best out of the circumstances.

One night, whilst sitting in the midst of the Library of the Manor, with books dispersed around their tangled bodies he'd told her that he loved her. She had tried turned around, his arms still clasped around her waist and his face buried in her hair. It was a wonder she'd heard him at all. The book on her lap had been discarded of, and she'd straddled him, kissing him with no restraints, no doubt or hesitation.

The time she'd told him the very same had been on the sofa where they'd been watching a film. The second he'd stopped laughing at one ridiculously funny scene he'd noticed her looking at him strangely. She'd blurted out the three words, and he'd immediately turned off the volume, pressed her against the cushions and kissed her with everything he had.

Nobody quite understood what it was that bound them to each other. But he just felt it whenever he looked into her eyes, felt her hand stroke his hair when nightmares came to haunt him; whenever it was her crying out in pain in the midst of the night, and he trembled in desperation to make it stop as he promised herthat everything was fine, that he was with her, that no one could hurt her even though she could still feel the blade dancing across her forearm. It made all the sense to him.

As her regular breathing tickled his neck, one arm wound over his chest and her body pressed tightly against his own, he understood that he couldn't care any less that it made no sense to anyone. Because it made all the sense to him, just like it made all the sense to her.

He placed a lingering kiss on the top of her head, and closed his eyes.

_Finis._


End file.
